3 years ago today, I sat in a scalding bath with candles lit, a box of wine within reach and my “Mellow Days” playlist on full blast. I sat there for hours in my dark safe haven with dancing flames and the occasional lit phone screen with yet another text message saying “are you okay?” and “can I get you anything?”. By the time I got out of the bath, my fingers and toes were so pruny they ached and it was almost a reasonable time for me to start drinking that box of wine.
It’s cliche and overstated, but it’s true, grief is weird. It tends to come around on the significant days. The birthdays, the anniversary. But sometimes it comes out of nowhere. Sometimes it's when a familiar song comes on the radio and you find yourself crying to Sugarland's "All I Want to Do". Sometimes it's when you're driving past a Steak N' Shake and remember the last birthday you spent together.
I’m not sure where I first heard this analogy, but it compared grief to a ball inside a box. Inside the box, there is a red button. At first, the ball is so large that it takes up almost the entire box and is constantly pushing the red button. Over time, the ball gets smaller. As it gets smaller, it bounces around and sometimes finds the red button.
Well today, for me, the ball found the button.
No, I’m not spending the day locked in a bathroom with swollen eyes and an endless supply of tears. Instead, I am scrolling through photos, looking at the clouds, searching for butterflies and reaching out to loved ones. While today’s scenario is very different than 3 years ago, the pain is all the same. The button is still there. And I still miss my sister.
